Trust Issues
by Shellsanne
Summary: This is an interpretation of the season 8 episode 10 promo, written before the episode's premiere (because I couldn't wait!). The story explores whether Sam and Dean can put their differences aside long enough to help a desperately-in-need Castiel. Can he be the common ground they need in order to go on as hunters and as brothers? (fits in just after 8.9, so beware of spoilers)
1. Chapter 1

**_Trust Issues_**

Part 1 of 2

Author: Shellsanne  
Primary characters: Dean, Sam and Castiel  
Genre: heavy on the angst, a bit of h/c  
Spoilers: YES. This takes place (and was written) directly before season 8, episode 10

Summary: This story is purely an interpretation of the 8.10 promo (written because I couldn't wait for the episode!). It explores whether Sam and Dean can put their differences aside to help a desperately-in-need Castiel.

... ... ...

1

... ... ...

"Where the hell is he?"

It's Dean's voice that finally snaps the long, brittle, and intensely charged silence. He is pacing at the edge of the clearing, where the trees and underbrush thicken into a densely wooded forest, and struggling to see his watch in the gauzy moonlight that filters through overhead branches. "We've already been here, what—" squinting and slapping at the crystal of his Suunto, "forty-five minutes?"

"Twenty-six and a half," says Sam in clipped, cold reply. He sits inside the Impala's passenger seat, where it's marginally warmer, the door swung open wide.

Dean glances fleetingly at him, noticing that his brother still refuses to make eye contact. "But who's counting, right?"

With that, the tense, festering silence returns. Dean shivers slightly in a chill wind that rustles the trees, hugging his arms around himself for warmth, and continues pacing. Somewhere within the foliage a single cricket chirps, a lonely survivor of the winter cull. "This is the place," Dean mutters, more to himself than to Sam. "I'm sure this is the place. I mean, we followed the coordinates he gave us. And it's not like he's going to screw up the coordinates. You sure you plugged in the right coordinates?"

Sam doesn't answer. He merely glares.

At least it's eye contact, Dean thinks.

"Okay," he says. "Fine. So we're in the right place. He's just late. Not a big deal…" He paces the length of the clearing, slaps again at the watch dial, and stops. "Except it _is_ a big deal because he's never late. I mean, it's not like he's gonna get stuck in traffic, is it. And what the hell is the point of a backlight if the _back never freakin' lights!_"

"Tell me again exactly what he said."

Dean sighs impatiently. "Eight o'clock. Here. Something about Crowley and another tablet and rescuing something or someone..."

Sam gives him a withering stare. "And that's…_exactly_ what he said."

"It's close enough."

Even in the dark and from outside the car, Dean can see Sam's eye-roll. "_What?_" he snaps.

"You have no idea what we're doing here."

"I just told you!"

Sam shakes his head and mutters something Dean can't quite hear.

"Didn't catch that, Sammy." The irritation in his voice is simmering into animosity.

Sam climbs out of the car and slams the door a little too hard. He fixes Dean with that stony glare again and says softly, "I said maybe you got the coordinates wrong, Dean. Or the time. Or the night. Or any number of details that I was relying on _you_ to sort out, because I was busy dropping everything and driving four hundred miles to get here!"

"Funny," Dean snorts. "Didn't sound like you said that much the first time."

"You want the condensed two-word version?"

Dean turns suddenly, slamming a hand against a car door. "You know what, Sam? I didn't exactly beg you to come. If you wanted to stay home and play house with some chick, if that's your calling now, you should've said so, because I sure as hell don't need you here."

"You think I'm here for you?" Sam retorts, his voice rising. "You seriously think I'd be here for _you?_"

Dean can feel his hands begin to shake with the frustration and anger he's trying to contain. He doesn't dare speak because he can't trust what might escape from his stifled emotions. Before tonight, he hadn't seen or heard from Sam in over three weeks. And when Sam reached the Lazy 8 Motel in Fayetteville earlier that evening, they exchanged little more than polite comments about the weather before piling into the Impala and heading off the last thirty miles for the meeting place. It was thirty miles of bitter silence.

"Let's get something straight," Sam is saying now, his tone conveying a calm he surely doesn't feel. "I came because Castiel asked, because he said he needed us both, and that's the only reason I'm here. If it were up to me—" He abruptly stops himself.

"What?" Dean growls. "Say it."

Sam throws both hands in the air and walks away.

"Don't stop now, Sammy, you're on a roll!" Dean shouts. "You want out? You want to quit? Why don't you just say what you want!"

"I've _been _saying what I want, Dean," Sam fires back, reeling around to face him. "You just won't accept it!"

Dean stomps forward, closing the distance between them, stopping mere inches away. In a low, whiskey-cured voice he says, "I'm in a real accepting mood right now, Sam. Why don't you try me."

"Fine," says Sam, swallowing back the lump of emotion in his throat. "I'll do this one last job. For Cas. And then I'm done. After tonight I'm finished."

And there it is. Dean had been expecting it for so long now, anticipating the hollow gut-punch of pain, that the actual words seem almost disappointing in their simplicity, in the lack of feeling they deliver. In fact, he doesn't feel much of anything at all.

"Fine," he says. "Let's just get through this last fucking night then, shall we?" And he moves away from Sam and turns his attention toward the dark thatch of trees looming in front of them. A low rumble of thunder rolls in from the distant clouds.

"Where the hell is he?"

...

Castiel is in a graveyard. Of that he's fairly certain. Tombstones jut from the earth like jagged stilts, their inscriptions worn smooth from decades of harsh weather. Beyond them is a dilapidated wrought iron fence, fully erect in some places, mangled spikes twisting toward the ground in others. And beyond that is the inky darkness of the woods.

_So unlike the white room_.

The thought causes a spark of disorientation in his mind, so keenly knife-edged in its intensity it makes him flinch. It comes from nowhere and makes no sense. It's happening again…

He inhales a human-like breath of the chilled air around him, allows it to fill and expand his lungs, and slowly releases it. Sometimes this helps ease the transition.

He's not sure how he came to be here. It feels like he's just been somewhere else, somewhere completely different…and uncomfortable, and wrong, and _white_…but the sensation is fading even as he tries to understand it, like he's chasing a shadow into the sun. This has been happening to him a lot lately, more and more over the past few weeks, since last he worked with Sam and Dean. In the weeks he has been on his own, Castiel has experienced inexplicable episodes of confusion, a feeling of being wrenched out of a moment then forced back into it like an ill-fitting puzzle piece. It usually fades within seconds, leaving him feeling a bit dazed and slightly embarrassed; this is the sort of thing that happens to elderly humans with dementia and drunks, not to beings of ageless divinity like himself. As the episodes continued, they began leaving him with a feeling of vague discomfort, of dis-ease. And lately, along with all the new ideas and information they seem to engender, they've been leaving in their slipstream a feeling of dire _wrongness_.

Which is why he finally contacted Sam and Dean.

But this time the feeling left over is very different. This time there is nothing vague or shapeless about it. This time the feeling is one of acute dread, like it's a nightmare he's just awoken from, and the remnants of it are just behind him, hunting him, reaching with their claws to drag him inexorably back.

_She's angry_ is the thought that leaps suddenly into his head. He has no idea what it means or where it comes from, only that it fills him with profound fear, with a dread that he's never known before. As if it's something he has no control over, something powerful and dark, something evil heading his way that he cannot possibly stop. He's just escaped it, he suddenly knows. He has no idea what, or how, but the certainty of his escape is undeniable. He's escaped and it's after him. _It is hunting him down._

A kind of panic is rising within Castiel, closing around his solar plexus, his chest, his throat as it claws its way up. He glances around with wide, frantic eyes, expecting something horrible to leap from between the trees or from behind one of the tombstones, something hateful and vile from the nightmare he can't remember.

_Someone very angry with him._

But of course there's nothing. It's quiet here. He's alone.

A flicker of lightning threads the clouded sky, and for the briefest instant the graveyard flashes white. Castiel shudders.

He wonders if he's losing his mind. Or perhaps he never fully regained it, and only now, after all this time, is the truth crumbling away to reveal itself. Perhaps he's sinking back into the embrace of madness.

But this isn't helping. He needs to concentrate, needs to still the desperately racing thoughts in his mind. _Sam and Dean_. They're here somewhere. They're waiting for him. He can tell them about all of this. Maybe they can help. He asked them to meet him, and…and then everything seemed to blur out of focus. In his escape from whomever or whatever is stalking him, he's lost track of both time and place…and even now he's losing his grasp on that very thought. Is someone stalking him? That's absurd…

A small voice from deep within tells him to hurry.

Castiel dives into the woods in search of his friends, not trusting his own honing abilities to find them right now and teleport him to their location. Like his thoughts, they're too disjointed, too unsteady. He stumbles through the underbrush, ducking through shrubs and leaping over deadwood. Skeletal branches claw at his skin as he runs, tear at his coat. He'll fix it later. He'll fix everything later. All he has to do now is find Sam and Dean.

Stumbling into a clearing, he finds the car, but they're not here. He turns around in a slow three-sixty, scoping the area, deciding on a path. _There_. Maybe half a mile through the trees he can see the sweeping arcs of flashlights. With the speed of thought, he's just yards behind them, and it's then that he hears their voices.

They're arguing. He catches words like "responsibility" and "unforgiveable" and, with pointed fierceness—though his senses are so frayed he can't be sure which of them says it—"_seven years of this shit_", and none of it means anything to him. He can't let it.

"Dean," he says to the broad-shouldered figure in front of him.

Dean spins around to face him with an angry, accusing stare, as if all of the rage that fueled his argument with Sam is now aimed and firing at Castiel. "Well, look who decided to join the party! Nice of you show up, Cas!"

"I'm sorry, I—" is all he manages before his words are bulldozed.

"Do you have any idea how long we've been waiting?" fires Sam.

"How long we've been tearing this place apart looking for you?" rages Dean.

"We've been looking everywhere!"

"We thought Crowley might have you!"

"What were you thinking?"

"Where the hell have you been?"

"I–I'm sorry," Castiel tries again, feeling like he's just stumbled unarmed and unprotected into a war zone. "I was—"

"Oh, that's perfect," snarls Sam, as the first of the rain begins sluicing down through the overhead branches. "I've got to go back to the car, my jacket's there."

"You left your jacket in the car? Why the hell would you do that?"

"Because I didn't expect to be wandering through the woods for half an hour!"

"It's gonna take you that long to get there and back," Dean shouts. "What are we supposed to do, just sit on our asses waiting?"

"Why don't you trying figuring out what we're doing here!"

"I can tell you that," says Castiel as he offers a neatly folded pile of canvas and waterproofing to Sam.

"Oh," says Sam, as if surprised to find Castiel still there. Recognizing his jacket, he takes it from the angel and struggles to stuff his long arms into the sleeves as the rains sheets steadily down around them. "Thanks."

"There's a church about half a mile south of here," says Castiel, nodding toward the upward slope of dense, dark woodland. As they huddle beneath a canopy of live oak branches that shelter them from the downpour, he explains to them that it's old and in disrepair, that it hasn't served as a place of worship for many years, but that somewhere within it lies a map to the location of the next tablet of the compendium. He tells them that Crowley may already have it, that he and his coterie arrived at the church earlier that day, that they may still be there now, and that Sam and Dean will need to search the premises and retrieve the map. They listen quietly as he speaks, absorbing the details with a sullen and tense impatience, as if their minds are still focused on the earlier argument and eager to return to it.

"So what will you be doing?" Dean finally asks, though it seems to Castiel without much genuine interest. "While we're searching for this map."

"I'll be searching for the angel Crowley's been detaining and torturing for the past three weeks. He's most likely here. His name is Samandriel. I believe you've met him."

"Right," says Dean vaguely and distractedly, "yeah."

"There's a dampening spell in place over the church to suppress angelic energy, which is why I believe Samandriel may be inside," Castiel explains. "Once there I'll be rendered as powerless as he is," he says, and it's in that instant that he is reminded of his own faltering acuity, and the true reason he asked his friends to be here. His polished relay of information freezes. It has been so easy to simply recite the necessary facts. Details rolling off his tongue smoothly and effortlessly, the words flowing through his lips as if by rote, and once he began explaining the mission, everything he so urgently wanted to confess to Sam and Dean—the lapses, the uncertainty, the unsettled feeling…the dread—began to simply slip away, as if it was never there.

They don't notice that he's stopped talking.

"So this is a rescue mission," says Sam in a tone similar to Dean's.

"Not for us," says Dean, as he drops to one knee and begins shuffling through his duffel bag, pulling forward for easy access the weapons he now knows that he'll need. "We go in, gank demons, grab a map, get out. Is that about it?"

"Um," says Castiel, scrabbling now for the threads as they slide from his reach, "yes."

"One question," says Dean, still rifling through his bag. Sam stands a few feet away, snapping fresh batteries into his flashlight. "How do you know all this?"

Castiel glances down at Dean. "What?"

Dean doesn't look up. He pulls a .45 Colt from a side compartment in the bag and slides it behind his back beneath his belt. "I'm just curious where you're getting your intell, dude. You been tailing Crowley?" He smiles up at Castiel now, a glint of mischievous pride in his eyes. "Smackin' up his stooges and makin' 'em squeal?"

The angel blinks at him. "I don't understand anything you just said."

Dean huffs a small laugh and zips up his bag. Sam shuffles impatiently. "This rain's not letting up. We should get going."

"Yeah," agrees Dean, all traces of amusement fading fast. He shoots a hard look at his brother. "Let's get this over with."

Castiel is still thinking about what Dean asked, feeling confused and irritated by a question that makes no sense to him but certainly _should_. Perhaps because he doesn't know the answer. How does he know about the map? About Samandriel? How does he know where the church is? And why does even thinking about these questions cause his thoughts to twist and tighten around them like a vengeful Gordian knot?

He tries to focus on his friends. Sam is frowning at his flashlight as he toggles the on-off switch. Dean is staring listlessly off into the forest. Their thoughts are elsewhere. They don't want to be here.

But they are. They came at his asking. But…_why _did he ask them?

Thunder rumbles low and baleful again, and there's a brief flash of lightning high in the clouds. The rain falls in a soft fluttering sound on the leaves above them, steady and unrelenting. Sam and Dean are waiting for him. For an instruction or a move. Perhaps to teleport them closer to the church. But they're still consumed in their own thoughts, in the tension and anxiety that Castiel met when he first arrived, too consumed to notice his confusion, his desperation.

Until an unexpected thing happens. Castiel notices it only in the periphery of his vision, and even then it doesn't fully register. Sam turns toward him and stops, and as Dean pulls himself to his feet, hoisting his duffel bag over his shoulder, his brother catches his arm. Annoyance flares on Dean's face as he tries to pull away, but Sam holds tight. He doesn't look away from Castiel. Dean glares at him for a moment, then follows his line of sight, his gaze resting on the angel. And then they stand very still, watching him with odd, intent expressions on their faces. Dean calls his name. Castiel replies, or at least he thinks he does, from the tangle of misfiring thoughts, and in that moment he realizes he has their full attention.

As if a switch has been flipped, a torrent of images and memories floods Castiel's mind. All the things that have been happening to him, the sense of losing time, of being in the wrong place, of forgetting vital pieces of information…and now, of the overwhelming dread, the foreboding, the nascent danger to them all that transcends Crowley and the tablets. _They need to know_…

...

The last time Cas looked this bad, this battered and lost, was when Dean found him in Pergatory. It's not so much his physical state—although his coat is torn and muddied, his hair disheveled, the skin of his face scratched and bleeding and inexplicably unhealed—as his demeanor. He looks apprehensive, almost overwrought. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, eyes darting in all directions, nerves strung tight. There's something in his eyes that looks like fear. But what troubles Dean most is the tremor he can see in his friend's hands…

"Cas?" he says, voice low and calm.

It takes a while for Castiel to respond. When he finally glances their way, he seems both startled and disarmed by their attention. His voice is barely audible against the drone of thunder. "Yes?"

They both watch him.

"What's going on?" Dean asks carefully, quietly.

"I told you. There's a church—"

"No," says Sam. "He means… Are you okay?"

The darkness of the night seems to expand around them all, swallowing them into implacable, endless black. There are no stars in the sky, no moon, and even the trees become featureless and shapeless against the night. Castiel seems frozen in place, a fixture of the dark, only his pallid face and the icy blue of his eyes discerning him from the empty space behind him.

"No," he finally says softly, looking to Dean more vulnerable than he's ever appeared. "I'm not. I need your—"

And then his eyes roll up, his head falls back, and he collapses to the black ground.

...

_WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?_

The question roars through his head with the force of a tidal wave. Dazzled and blinded by the tortuously white light, he's not sure at first who said it.

But as shards of light coalesce like fragments of broken glass, her face takes shape over his, just inches away. Her dark hair is swept back from skin as pale and translucent as porcelain. Her eyes are intense and shining, the color of cobalt. They are filled with rage.

"First you leave our meeting before we're finished," Naomi says, her voice bristling. "How did you manage that?"

Castiel remembers everything, how by sheer force of will he'd managed to rip himself out of this room and back to his reality. But his response dries up in his throat as he stares up at her.

"It doesn't matter. It won't happen again. But what you were about to do, what you were about to say…" The pupils in her eyes dilate, blackening with intensity as she leans closer. He can feel her lips against his right ear, a wisp of her hair brushing his cheek. Lowering her voice to a wintry, lethal whisper, she asks, "Do you think we'll allow you to ruin everything?"

He tries to speak, wants to explain, but once again the words evaporate, and all at once he understands that she's not allowing him to speak. He is meant merely to listen. To hear. To obey.

It's then that he realizes he cannot move. He doesn't dare look away from her, but he can feel that his arms and legs are heavily restrained, locked into place, and that he's lying back at an angle from where she stands over him. Even his head feels somehow immobilized. The room is familiar, but all of this is new…

"We asked you merely to locate a map and retrieve a captive angel, and even that you're resisting."

"No," Castiel chokes out. "I want to help him—" He'll do anything to help his felled brother, to bring him home safely; it was never that he questioned, it was her tactics, it was deceiving the Winchesters, deceiving _him_—

She holds up a single hand to silence his thoughts.

Almost gently she says, "You're a great disappointment, Castiel. I personally had such high hopes for you." She steps back and regards him evenly, her expression less of anger now than of regret. "But you've proven yourself untrustworthy. You're far too out of control to be allowed to continue as you have."

_I'm sorry_, he wants to say. But he's not sorry. He's relieved. As much as he wants to atone for his sins against Heaven, there is something about all of this that has felt wrong from the beginning. Perhaps it's him. Perhaps he's the wrong person for this. Perhaps he's been too influenced by his relationship with the Winchesters and their doctrine of free will to ever again follow an order without questioning it. Maybe now they can find the right person for this work.

"We have the right person," she says, smiling down at him coldly, and from the corner of his vision something silver flashes in her hand. "We just need to fit you with an insurance policy, to ensure your obedience from now on."

It all happens so fast. Another flash of silver as she raises an object over his head, a device—is it a drill?—that she holds deftly in her hand, its pointed edge razor sharp and searing hot as it touches his forehead with a piercing, high-pitched screech.

"You have new orders, Castiel," he hears her say through the first wave of horrific pain. "And this time you'll follow them."

She may be saying more, but it's lost in his own scream of agony.

...

Dean leaps to Castiel's side. The angel has crumbled to the ground, doubled over in nearly a fetal position. Dean gives him a shake, calls his name. Sam has come up just behind him, his breath on Dean's neck.

"_Cas?_" Dean says again, more urgently this time. "C'mon, man."

The angel's eyes flutter open. Dean tucks a hand under his arm to help him up, when Castiel suddenly and quite violently recoils, swings a fist at Dean that misses him entirely but nevertheless sends him reeling backward and colliding into Sam, then raises both arms in a defensive cross over his face, with the thundering shout: "_DON'T TOUCH ME!_"

The sound is deafening, like an explosion at close range. Tree leaves ripple in its shockwave.

It takes a while for the hiss of rain to gradually filter back in through the shocked silence hanging palpably in the night. Sam and Dean are both standing motionless, both staring thunderstruck and speechlessly at Castiel, who slowly staggers to his feet, looking pale and unsteady, a vacant sheen in his eyes. He blinks a few times, sways to one side, corrects himself. Dean starts to move toward him, but Sam rests a hand on his wrist, subtly holding him back. They don't dare move.

Lightning flashes in a zigzag overhead, the bass of thunder so deep it seems to roll beneath their feet.

Castiel's left eye twitches slightly, like a nervous tick, and one hand raises to his temple, touches it briefly, then drops back to his side. As Dean watches, it occurs to him for one crazy moment that it's no longer his friend standing there.

"Cas," he finally says very carefully, so quietly that he's not sure he can be heard over the rain. "What the hell, man?"

Castiel blinks again, as if clearing a mental fog. There's something mechanical, almost automated, in the stilted way he moves, and as he slowly looks up at them with those vacant eyes, Dean feels a chill. "There isn't much time," he says. "We have to move."

Sam shakes his head slightly, his ears still ringing. "What…what just happened, Cas?"

Castiel doesn't answer at first. He simply stares. And Dean has the impression that he's reconfiguring, computing the correct response.

"Crowley has left Samandriel alone in the church. He needs our help. I have to reach him."

Struggling to follow, Dean asks, "Samandriel is definitely there? You know that?"

"I can hear him. But Crowley will be returning shortly. Because of the dampening spell, he'll need to physically enter from the outside. The two of you will patrol the area, detain him if he appears."

"You…want us to detain _Crowley_," asks Sam incredulously.

"We have no more than ten minutes."

"Cas, how do you _know _this?" presses Dean.

The angel turns to—on?—him, his expression flat, his voice cold. "We have a window of opportunity before he returns. That window is closing."

"O–Okay," stammers Sam, "just get us inside the church and we'll find the—"

"No," Castiel says sharply. "You will remain outside of the church until I give you the all-clear. You will wait for that. Do you understand?"

"Not really," mutters Dean.

"Your job is to stand guard against Crowley." A harshness edges his tone, a growing impatience.

"I thought our job was to find some map," says Sam with a frown.

He turns on Sam this time. "I said you will _wait_."

"You said you'll have no powers in there," counters Dean. "Shouldn't you have back-up?"

"He's right," says Sam. "Wouldn't it make more sense for us to follow you in?"

"That's not—"

"You search for your winged buddy while we take out Crowley's goons," Dean says.

"And then we'll find the map," Sam concurs.

"I don't need—"

"We're coming with you," says Dean flatly, his tone declaring a final decision has been made.

It seems to take Castiel off-guard. He steps away from them, stumbling backward into the massive gnarled trunk of the oak behind him as he speaks. "This isn't—you can't—" And as his voice rises through his clenched jaw, "I have my or—"

He abruptly stops, flinching as if he's just been physically struck. His head drops and a hand presses against his left temple.

The brothers exchange uneasy glances.

"Your what?" Dean asks quietly.

The angel doesn't look up as he speaks. One trembling hand massages his forehead as he struggles through the words, as if each one is causing him pain. "My…my orders. If you can't follow my orders, I don't want you here. In fact, you should go, you should just…" He winces and sucks in a sharp breath. "…_go_…"

Dean drops his duffel bag and crosses to Castiel, closing the space between them.

"Cas," he says gently, affecting a calm that he doesn't feel.

His friend doesn't respond. His eyes are hidden behind the hand at his forehead. Rainwater spills in thin rivulets from a tangle of wet hair at his brow, tracing paths down his face.

"Look at me," Dean instructs him. He places a hand carefully on the angel's shoulder. "Hey—"

Castiel flinches back from the touch, and Dean tightens his hold. "No, don't fight me," he says firmly. "Just look up."

The angel reluctantly obliges. His hand falls to his side again, and he lifts his gaze into Dean's. He looks utterly exhausted, like he's just fought and lost a battle that Sam and Dean had no part of. He looks like he's in pain. But most unsettling of all, there's a hollowness in his expression, an emptiness in his eyes, that makes it look like he's not entirely there.

"You need to tell us what's going on," Dean says. "Let us help you."

"I don't need your help," he finally replies in a thin, taut voice that sounds little like his own.

"A few minutes ago it sounded like you did," says Sam, who has quietly drifted over and now stands firmly at his brother's side.

"Just before you took a swing at me," says Dean.

"What's happening to you, Cas?"

"Talk to us, buddy."

Castiel tilts his head back to take them both in, to assess their stance toward him, Dean thinks, their proximity. He's taking note that he's effectively surrounded, with Sam blocking one exit, Dean the other, and the immense trunk of an oak tree at his back. He exhales a long, ragged breath. "Okay," he says. "Let's talk." And then in the measured but artificially kind voice of a teacher admonishing wayward children, Castiel says, "Asking you here was a mistake. From the moment you arrived, with your pointless questions and your petty squabbles, you've done nothing but waste my time. Your problems aren't my concern. You're of no use to me. And you're in my way. Now _get out_."

And they do. Stunned and unnerved by his words, reminded that they're in the presence of a being whose mere voice can make trees quake, they both take a step back without thinking twice, opening a space for him. He of course doesn't need them to do this, but he steps into the space anyway, as if to make a point, and then turns back to them.

"Stay away from the church. Go home."

Dean watches him for a moment, then takes a deep, unsteady breath. He glances across at his brother, then down at the weedy mud at his feet. "Look, we'll do a sweep for Crowley if that's what you—"

"Dean."

Dean looks up at Sam, who motions over his shoulder toward Castiel. The space where the angel had been standing is empty. It's just the two of them now.

...

They stand wordlessly for a moment as the rain swells around them, the din of thunder softening beneath the surge of wind. Both of them at a loss for words, both trying to take in what has just happened, neither of them understanding it. It's finally Dean who breaks the uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sorry."

Sam looks up, startled out of his thoughts. "Huh?"

"I'm just…sorry."

"For what?"

Dean shakes his head, rolls his eyes a little. "Half the crap I said to you before." Then shooting a steely glance at Sam, "Only half though."

Sam offers a small laugh, wiping strands of wet, matted hair from his forehead with the back of his hand. But his brother isn't finished.

"Mostly I'm sorry for you getting dragged all the way back here for…" He shrugs, raises both palms, then lets them drop wearily to his sides. "Whatever the hell this was."

"It's not your fault," says Sam quietly.

"I know. Still… Helluva way to go out, huh?"

Neither says anything for a long moment. The rain falls steadily, a dismal, ever-present backbeat to the evening.

"I just want you to know…" Dean finally says, and then fades out.

Sam tries to catch his eye, but can't. "What?"

Dean sighs. He focuses on the weeds at his feet. "If you need to head back now, Sammy… it's okay. I mean, I can't really say I understand it, but…" He looks up now and meets his younger brother's eyes. "You've got to do what feels right for you."

Sam watches as Dean gives him a single nod, as if to punctuate the words, then dips his head and looks back down, water dripping off his chin. "I will," Sam says. He's still watching him, knowing how difficult that had to be for him, feeling a pulse of admiration, and adds softly, "Thanks."

If he squints, Sam can just about see the chrome of the Impala winking in the wet distance. It amazes him how that car catches non-existent light. "It's not like we have much choice," he tells his brother.

"He didn't leave us much," says Dean sullenly, still staring down.

"He doesn't want us here."

"Made that pretty clear."

"He doesn't want our help."

Dean peers up at him now. "Definitely not."

Sam smiles just a little. "And you know, he…" as he glances off in the direction of the church, retrieving his knapsack from the ground, "…_really_ doesn't want us in that church."

Dean returns the small smile. "He really doesn't."

Sam tightens the knapsack's strap over his shoulder. "So are you leading the way, or am I?"

Dean grabs his duffel bag as they both head south into the forest. "Depends on which of us packed the satnav."

... ...

The tunnels beneath the old Catholic church, constructed during the early eighteenth century, have a colorful history. First used primarily for the production and transport of bootleg alcohol, they later became part of a secret network of way stations to guide escaped slaves to freedom in the northern states. Shortly after, they became a shelter and hiding place for wounded Confederate soldiers, often deserters. But these days, with the abandoned church in ruins and deemed unstable, its doors and windows barricaded with loose plywood and warning signs, the tunnels beneath have been mostly forgotten.

Castiel knows exactly where they are.

He knows that somewhere within the crumbling walls of the derelict old structure lies the key to the location of the next tablet, and that Sam and Dean were meant to retrieve this key, in whatever form it takes. (His head still throbs from the act of rejecting that plan, of sending them away. But he had no choice.) He'll have to return for this later. He is here for only one purpose now, and time is running short.

The nave is in shambles. Rain sleets in through broken rafters, where sections of the roof have collapsed. Pews are toppled, jagged shards of broken glass, crushed cigarette cartons and beer cans litter the floor, amid piles of rotting wood planks and fractured beams that reek of decay. Rodents have undoubtedly crawled beneath them to die. Castiel moves decisively toward the east end of the building, toward the dilapidated altar, where an assortment of syringes and needles festoon the lectern, and a huge cross that must once have inspired devotion and prayer now tilts forward in a sullen, vaguely threatening angle. He turns right, into the chancel. He shoves aside the massive rood screen that stands protectively before three rows of wooden choir benches. He can see where the bench closest to the wall has been pushed aside recently, leaving deep crevasses in the floor beneath it. And he can see the frayed leather strap tied to a wide wooden panel there, a panel that otherwise looks like all the others. He grabs the strap and heaves it up, pulling open the door to the underground tunnels. This is where he'll find his captive brother.

He doesn't know how he knows these things; but he knows better than to question them.

He climbs down the metal rungs that protrude from the earthen wall and serve as a makeshift ladder. It's very dark down here, very dank, and the smells of mildew and wet decay grow thicker the further he descends. He reaches the bottom, the empty dirt floor of the first tunnel, and heads into its pitch black embrace. At the first junction, he turns left, at the next he turns right, never slowing, never faltering. He knows exactly where he's going. A faint flickering light throws shadows against the far wall, and when he turns here, he finds his brother.

A single candle flickers light across the tunnel, six feet wide and ten feet high, solid rock on either side. Samandriel lies crumpled at its far end in bruises, gashes, and pooling blood as black as tar. His garments are torn and soaked in the fluids from his multiple wounds. His wrists are shackled to the wall behind him, perhaps the same shackles worn by slaves from another era. Elaborate sprays of crimson stain the walls all around him, and even where Castiel stands, the dirt floor is spongy with blood. They've done horrific things to him here.

The young angel's head hangs limp over his chest, his torn and battered face a death-like pallor in the gloomy light. His eyes are swollen closed. The youthful, cherubic vessel he chose has aged years in the past three weeks.

Castiel crosses the length of the tunnel to reach him, taking the key that hangs torturously close from a ring in the opposite wall. As he kneels beside the broken angel and works the key into the first shackle, Samandriel lifts his head. He murmurs something Castiel can't understand, then begins choking.

"Don't speak," orders Castiel as he slides open the metal latch and very gently lowers the mangled wrist into Samandriel's lap.

As the younger angel gazes up at him and tries to speak again, Castiel is aware of the sudden energy shift—he can almost _feel _the leap of Samandriel's heart, the surge of gratitude and wonder. "It's _you_," he manages now through the gasps, his eyes radiant beneath their swollen lids as he struggles to keep them open.

"Don't speak," Castiel says again, unlatching the second manacle, but the joy effusing from the angel can't be contained.

"It _is _you, isn't it? _Castiel?_ You're alive?"

Sharp, guttural sounds erupt from the angel's throat now, and at first Castiel mistakes them for a coughing fit. But it's laughter, he realizes. Joyous, delighted laughter. Through blood and bruises, Samandriel is beaming up at him with nothing short of adoration. "You're alive," he says again, tears welling in his eyes. "I always knew it. I knew Father could never take you from us. I knew…"

"Shhh," whispers Castiel.

"I knew His love for you was too great."

Castiel is beginning to feel sick.

"And that you could never leave us. And now…" Tears spill down his blood-smeared cheeks. "…the most precious of answered prayers…here you are."

Looking down at the battered angel, he realizes that his gratitude isn't so much about being rescued as about being rescued by _him_. His fallen hero alive and well and coming personally to his aid.

The pure love lighting the young angel's face is transformative. Frail and deathly only moments ago, his renewed life force shines bright and determined now. Castiel is momentarily transfixed by it…

Samandriel is cooing blithely about faith and trust, about the power of their Father's love (Castiel isn't listening), when suddenly he stops, his expression shifting into something more somber. "I haven't said anything to Crowley," he says fiercely. "I've been strong. Despite his most…enthusiastic efforts…I've said nothing to him, Castiel. I would die before betraying my brothers and sisters."

And looking into the angel's soft, earnest eyes, Castiel believes him. There's confidence in his words. There's strength. And it occurs to Castiel in that moment that he's in the presence of a very fine soldier.

Samandriel seems to be waiting for some response, perhaps hoping for some small sign of recognition from his beloved hero.

"Can I help you stand?" asks Castiel, his words sounding tinny and hollow to his own ears. He's about to offer his arm for support, but Samandriel, as if eager to prove himself, braces against the stone wall behind him and climbs quickly, if unsteadily, to his feet. His clothes hang in smears of deep scarlet, slashed in many places, burned in others. What they've done to him is unforgiveable…

"Castiel, what is it? Your hands…"

Castiel starts from his daze. The young angel is staring at his hands, frowning with worry. Castiel follows his line of sight to his own hands. They are shaking quite badly.

"I'm fine."

The two of them stand strangely motionless for a moment, facing one another in the undulating gloom of candlelight. In his weakened state, the young angel's concern for Castiel is unnerving. "We should leave," he suggests, trying to be helpful. "They'll be back soon."

Castiel doesn't move. He stares at Samandriel, the tremor in his hand becoming far more pronounced as he reaches into the breast pocket of his coat. And then stops. "No."

"Castiel?"

"I can't," he says miserably, closing his eyes, feeling dizzy.

He feels a gentle, hesitant touch on his arm. "What is it you can't do, brother?"

Gritting his teeth, choking out the words as his mind begins to crash… "I _won't_. I won't do it. _No._"

And the response is a lightning strike of intense, nerve-shattering pain that sears through this temples. He cries out and arches backward and the dirt floor is suddenly lashing against his face.

"Castiel!"

Through blinding firebolts of electric torture that run the length of his body, sending him into convulsions, he can just about make out Samandriel's face close to his, he can feel hands on his back trying to hold him still. "Castiel, what's happening? What can I do? How can I help you?"

Castiel reaches through the haze and seizes the other angel by his blood-soaked shirt collar.

"Help me…"

Samandriel leans closer, he cradles Castiel's face, fingers gently stroking sweaty locks of hair from his brow. "Yes. Tell me how to help you. Tell me what you need."

Almost inaudibly against the white noise of pure agony that rages in his head, Castiel says, "Run."

"What?"

"I need you to run," he repeats through a jaw locked and clenched so tight he's sure he'll fracture it, but the pain would be lost in the paroxysm he's drowning in now.

Samandriel blinks at him, not understanding.

"Run."

Shoving the broken angel backward with all this strength, he roars: "_RUN!_"

A torrent of new pain rips through Castiel so viciously, cutting off his breath, that he's unable even to cry out, his body contorting and seizing violently now. A series of electric shocks, each breathtaking in their impact, fires from his temples, down his spine, through his entire body with sickening force. White fragments slice through his vision with every seizure of his body, and the noise...the white noise in his head is deafening. For an instant he loses all sense of identity. He forgets who he is, where he is, what he's doing here. Nothing exists in the universe but pain.

"It's alright, brother," says a voice from very far away, as the universe of pain tilts slightly. There are hands beneath him, at his back, on his shoulders, he's being gathered into someone's arms, and surely this can't be right. With a great force of will, he forces his eyes to open. Through the bleached and grainy sepia tone of his vision, he can see Samandriel at his side. Impossibly, the weak and tattered angel has hoisted him to his feet and is half-carrying, half-dragging him down the tunnel, the candle in one hand guiding his way. "Lean on me. Let me take your weight."

"No…" Castiel groans, unsure if he can be heard. "…please go away, please—"

"I'm not leaving you, my friend," says the young soldier. "I've got you. We'll leave here together." Glancing at him with a reassuring smile: "We'll save each other."

Castiel tries weakly and uselessly to fight him, but Samandriel is dragging him from the tunnel with impressive determination, already making the first turn. The pain is beginning to ease now, beginning to ebb into merciful nothingness, and he wonders if he's blacking out. For a moment he lets himself drift, willing himself into the bliss of blackness.

Until the single thought of what he's here to do, the order he's been given, impassively reasserts itself.

"Please…leave me, Samandriel…" It's the first time he's ever spoken the angel's name out loud to him, and he can sense the way it lifts Samandriel's confidence, the way it bolsters his determination, and Castiel is immediately sorry for saying it. They're in the last length of tunnel now, a dim light frosting the far end, filtering down from the chancel.

"Not much further, brother. We're almost there." And as he keeps speaking, Castiel feels certain that it's for his benefit, to keep him conscious and responsive. "I feel very unworthy of your presence, Castiel. You of all the angels, of all my beloved brothers. That you should come to my rescue… I surely don't deserve such fortune."

As his rescuer pulls him toward the exit, Castiel begins to sob. "No. You don't."

Samandriel turns to him, misreading his companion's emotion. "We're nearly there, my friend. I've got you."

They've reached the ladder. Samandriel drops the candle to the dirt floor and makes a move toward it, but Castiel raises an arm to the wall, pressing his palm flat beneath the first rung, blocking him.

Softly and coldly as tears course down his face, Castiel says, "And I've got you."

Samandriel looks at him innocently, candlelight playing across his features, and smiles. "What do you mean?"

In a last, futile attempt to make all of this stop, one last insignificant plea of resistance before it is crushed out of existence, Castiel winces in pain.

"Castiel?"

"I'm so sorry," he says on a whisper. His hand connects with the angel blade inside his coat this time, and as he pulls it into the light, Samandriel's expression flickers with recognition, with surprise, but without understanding. And as Castiel plunges it deep into his chest, the young angel's eyes go wide with confusion, with hurt, but without blame. Somehow, as fantastic light floods the tunnel, his last moment of life still holds only love for his hero brother.

As the light winks out and sounds of commotion drift down from the church, Castiel slides down the cold stone wall, his body wracked by sobs, the bloody blade slipping from his fingers.

...

Sam and Dean are rummaging through the ruined church, turning upright overturned pews, pulling apart rubble, sifting through the trash they find in a small desk just inside the entrance. The good news is there's no one here. No demons, no captive angels, no King of Hell. The place is empty, apart from the rats. The bad news is there's no map.

And no sign of Castiel.

And they've started arguing again. It was simple things at first, like which direction they should enter the church from—Dean wanted to storm in guns blazing through the front, Sam thought a furtive entrance through a side window would make more sense. But soon enough it expanded into more complicated areas, like who was going to tell Kevin's mother that the team would be one man short, and how soon Sam would be tearing back to Texas. In the middle of that, Dean suddenly stops, one hand up.

"Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Like…a shout, like…_run_?"

"You think maybe Crowley's hiding in the confessional telling us to run?"

Dean scowls, and it's back to the argument. Until before long they are barely speaking and tearing the place to pieces less in a search than in a venting of steam.

That's when Sam sees it. It's so dark in the gloomy nave that it's no wonder it was missed. The fact that it could so easily be mistaken for graffiti gives it a perfect hiding place.

"Dean," Sam says, shining his flashlight along a high wall alongside a boarded up window that once held stained glass.

"What am I looking at?"

"There. Don't you see it?"

Dean squints at the dusky light playing across red and blue scrawls of paint.

"The graffiti?"

"No. I mean yeah, but I don't think that's what it is."

They both step closer, lifting on their toes, flashlights trained on the cuneiformed squiggles on the wall. They do have a certain Enochian look to them, though neither of them recognizes the symbols.

"You think this is the map?" asks Dean. "What, like, directions in hieroglyph?"

Sam shrugs. "Maybe."

"How do you know that's not Crowley's dampening sigil?"

"We've seen those before. This looks different."

Dean sighs and steps back, surveying the trashed church. "Okay. Whatever."

Sam bristles slightly. "What do you mean, whatever?"

"I mean I think you just want to get out of here. But if you think that's it, take pictures or something. Do what you want. You will anyway."

He continues sifting through the rubble as Sam stares at him, quietly seething. It doesn't take him long to pull out his cell phone, aim it at the wall, adjust the flash, and begin snapping photos. He can transfer them to his laptop later and, if that's what it comes to, send them to Dean. Interpreting them will be someone else's problem. Sam is scanning them on his phone, wondering if there's enough light, and _that's_ when a flash of light the intensity of a small neutron bomb douses the entire church.

...

It's impossible to know exactly where the flash originated, but one thing is clear: it came from below. It takes Sam and Dean less than a minute to locate the choir benches behind the rood screen, and the open trap door beneath the back bench. They rush down the makeshift ladder that leads them underground.

The tunnel looks empty at first. Breathless and wired, guns drawn and ready, it takes them a moment to notice Castiel slumped against the back wall, knees to his chest, his face hidden in the shadows.

"Cas?" Dean approaches him cautiously. "What happened? What was that?"

"Samandriel is dead," comes the flat, monotone reply.

Sam's eyes dart around the tunnel. "What? When? Is that what—?"

"That was the flash," says Dean quietly, his flashlight running the length of the sweeping charcoal tattoo of wings on which they stand, stretching the length of the tunnel, burned into the dirt. He looks at Castiel. "You get the bastard who did this?"

Castiel still hasn't looked up. His focus is on some hazy middle ground. "No."

"Who killed him, Cas?" asks Sam. "Was it Crowley or one of his henchmen?"

"Are they still here?" Dean glances warily down into the tunnel's darkness.

"No." Castiel climbs to his feet, brushes the soil and dust from his trenchcoat.

Dean takes a step closer. "Who was it? Who killed him?"

"Does it matter?" says Castiel in the same lifeless voice. "He's dead."

And with that the angel heads up the laddered rungs and out of the tunnel, leaving Sam and Dean to follow.

... ...

It's a thirty-minute car ride back to the motel in Fayetteville, but it feels like hours.

No one says a word.

Dean is a little surprised by, and not entirely comfortable with, Cas's decision to ride along with them in the backseat. Considering the diatribe he launched before ditching them in the woods, he thought Cas might want a little space. It's weird that he hasn't spoken about what happened at the church, and Dean can't help wondering how much he's hiding. Cas isn't exactly talkative about his interactions with his feathered friends (not that there've been many since he pulverized most of Heaven), but this kind of silent shut-down is nothing like him. This entire evening has been nothing like him.

He glances at his friend a few times in the rearview mirror. Cas stares expressionlessly through the back window, his eyes dark and lifeless, orange light glinting off them as streetlights flicker by. He doesn't move, doesn't shift his view, for the duration of the journey. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck bristle every time he glances back.

And then there's Sam. Sam's not even staying at the same motel as Dean. He deliberately booked a room two blocks away. Nothing about this evening is right.

Occasionally casting him a careful sidelong glance, ready to pretend he's checking the sideview mirror should Sam catch him, he can see the beleaguered worry lines in his brother's face, the drawn and burnt-out expression. He's tired. He's anxious. He's pissed off. He's worried about Cas, about Dean, about whatever's happening in Texas… He's a champion of worry, his little brother. And if Dean were to ask him right now how he's feeling, he'd say "fine." The patented Winchester reply.

With his brother at his side and his best friend in the backseat, the two people in this world he cares most about, Dean has never felt more alone.

... ... ...


	2. Chapter 2

_**Trust Issues**_

**Part 2 of 2**

x

* * *

x

Anyone glancing in through the grime-smudged window of room 104 at the Lazy 8 in Fayetteville that night would deem the scene too dull for a second look. For all intents and purposes, things feel disturbingly routine.

Castiel sits in front of the television watching an old Steve McQueen western, occasionally making some odd comment about horses or asking some totally inappropriate question about women in brothels; Sam sits at the small dining table, transferring his cellphone photos to his laptop as he checks his email; and Dean slumps on one of the beds, back against the headboard, nursing a shot of Johnny Walker Red and trying his best to avoid eye contact with either of them. It isn't difficult. No one's looking his way. For the most part, everyone is silent and engrossed in their own activity.

There is one brief, and strangely unsettling, exchange about Samandriel, shortly after they arrive.

Sam is studying the photos on his laptop screen, trying to adjust the contrast, when he takes a deep breath and says to Castiel, "I'm sorry about your friend, Cas."

There is a long pause as television images flash in the angel's eyes, and both Sam and Dean wonder if he's going to respond at all. "He was my brother," Castiel finally says without looking up from the screen. "But we weren't friends."

Sam finds his gaze has drifted inadvertently into Dean's. Both glance away.

"He's free now," Cas adds genially.

"If by free you mean dead," mumbles Dean, knocking back the last of his shot.

Sam shoots Dean a look that would have annoyed him, if he hadn't been so distracted by Castiel's reaction. Cas looks up now, not at either of them, just slightly to the side of the TV set. He blinks a few times and frowns, giving Dean the distinct impression that he's struggling to recall what happened. "He's… dead. Yes. We freed him from Crowley."

"_You_ did that," says Dean, watching him closely.

"_I_ did that," says Cas, frown still in place, the words sounding almost like a question as his attention drifts back to the TV screen.

...

About half an hour goes by when Sam finally stands, looking uncomfortable, and announces that he'll be leaving. "The motel's just down the street, so I won't be far…" and Dean notices his uneasy glance at Cas as he says this. "Thing is, I've been on the road all day getting here. I need to sleep."

"Yeah," says Dean absently, draining another shot of Red. "You should do that."

"I'll be back in the morning," he says, pointedly, to Dean, who doesn't take much notice. "All the photos are transferred. I haven't really looked at them. We can do it in the morning. If that's, you know," looking uncomfortable again, "okay with everyone."

"Fine," murmurs Dean, feeling like the last life preserver from a sinking ship is about to float away from him.

"See you in the morning, Sam," chirps Cas, glancing up from the TV with a bright expression, nearly a smile. As if tonight was like any other. Sam and Dean both feel the ripple of chills that pulses out from him. They stare at him for a long moment as he re-immerses himself in his western, and then, with the synchronicity they've shared since they were kids, they are looking at each other. Sharing a single thought.

"Okay then," says Sam, pulling open the motel room door. "See ya."

"Hang on," says Dean, "I'll see you out." He follows his brother out, and they close the door behind them.

... ...

Dean glances up, hearing the crunch of gravel beneath leather-soled dress shoes, and smiles as he tilts a tin can over the ground.

"Hey, Cas."

They are about 100 yards from the motel, the sparse scattering of cars in the parking lot still visible from here. It almost feels like they're in the woodlands again, with trees rising up in the adjacent field, and a desolate emptiness all around. But the ground beneath them is asphalt.

"Sam came back in after he left," says Castiel as he approaches. "He said you needed me for something."

Dean pours gingerly, following the line of the liquid from the can in a wide semi-circle. "Yeah. I do."

It's nearly midnight. The rain has stopped and the wind has blown the sky clear of clouds, revealing an array of bright stars that cascade across the skyline and a bulbous moon sitting low and fat on the horizon.

"How can I help?" asks the angel.

Dean motions a couple yards ahead of him. "Stand right there."

Castiel obliges, planting his feet firmly on the asphalt. "Here okay?"

Dean glances up, smiles. "Perfect."

"What is it you're doing?"

"Just getting things ready."

"Ready for what?"

Dean doesn't answer. He simply continues pouring the precise and steady line of thick fluid onto the ground, bent over and backing away from it now as he pours, as Castiel watches. As Castiel realizes he's forming a circle around them.

"Is that…sanctified? Is that holy oil?"

"Yep," says Dean.

There is a pause.

Castiel's expression darkens. He doesn't move. "Dean…what are we doing?"

Dean stands up straight now, the circle complete. Looking directly at Castiel, he strikes a match. "We're just having a talk."

And then he tosses the match, igniting a thin line of fire with a deep, rolling _whoomph_ that sweeps around them in a graceful arc, enclosing them in flames.

The circle is deliberately large, with a diameter of fifteen feet at its widest point, and maybe it's because of the size, or the amount of oil he used, or something about the wind patterns on this night, but the flames leap particularly high, a fiery wall that rises just over Dean's head. Even from this remote distance and on a night this quiet, it won't take long for this to be reported. But he's not concerned about that now. He's looking at his friend in the center of the fire.

Castiel stands motionless before an undulating curtain of oranges and yellows, warm air from its flames whipping the flaps of his coat. He stares back at Dean with wide, stunned eyes.

Dean takes a few slow, measured steps—he's determined not to rush this—and stops just in front of him. "I want answers from you."

"You could have just asked for them," Castiel snaps.

"I've _been_ asking, Cas!"

The angel steps back, startled. "About…what?"

Dean scoffs. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, I…" He glances around helplessly at the flames. "I don't understand. What is it you want from me, Dean?"

Dean can hear the panic rising in the angel's voice. He lowers his own, keeping himself calm. "The truth, Cas. Without you dodging it, or changing the subject, or disappearing. I just want you to tell me the truth."

Castiel shakes his head. He looks utterly lost. "About _what?_"

Dean stares at him in disbelief, speechless. He hadn't been sure what to expect in reaction to direct confrontation, and as he and Sam threw together this rushed, clumsy plan he'd compiled a short list of possibilities in his head, but this…this wide-eyed display of ignorance wasn't anywhere on it. He watches as Castiel steps back again, raises both arms to his sides in exasperation, then lets them drop, a gesture of bewilderment and futility.

"Please, Dean…help me understand. Why are you doing this?" And then softly, miserably: "Again."

Silence hangs for a moment. Flamelight shimmers in his eyes as they find Dean's. Quietly, in a voice unsteady with emotion, he asks, "Don't you trust me?"

Dean merely watches him.

Castiel takes another step back, as if physically repelled by the silence, by what he reads as Dean's response to his question. He continues backing toward the wall of flame behind him as he speaks. "Have I let you down somehow? Do you think I've been…lying to you? That I'm deceiving you?"

"Okay," says Dean uneasily, "back to the center. You're too close to the edge."

"After everything that's happened…after a year in Pergatory…do you really believe…?"

"Cas," Dean warns.

"You think I would _betray_ you, Dean?"

Spurred into movement, as if jolted by the question, Dean grabs for him. "Damnit, Cas—" He seizes him roughly by the lapels of his coat, hauls him back to the center. "You _trying _to set yourself on fire?"

He releases him just as roughly and they stand staring at each other. Dean blows out a breath. "So are you finished? Got that out of your system?"

Castiel stares back, looking even more confused and a little indignant now.

"You know, for a millennia-old angel, you sometimes act like you just fell off the goddamn turnip truck. You think I'd be standing here with you, in one of Dante's friggin' circles of hell, burning my ass off, if I didn't trust you?"

It's Castiel at a loss for words now. His brow furrowed, he's struggling to understand.

Dean shakes his head and sighs. "This isn't an inquisition, Cas, you're not on trial. Has it occurred to you I might be trying to _help_ you?"

The angel's frown deepens. Dean can almost _see_ his thoughts tumbling in confusion, racing to catch up to something he clearly can't comprehend.

"Do I…need help?"

Dean chuckles softly, wipes a beaded line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm thinking _I _might."

"If you tell me what it is you think I've done—"

"What I think you've…?" Dean lets out a flinty laugh, his patience wavering as the heat builds within the circle. "What the hell was that at the church tonight, Cas? Because what I think you did first was fail to show at a meeting that _you _insisted on, then you freak out on us, and then you abandon us out there!"

"I…I don't understand."

Dean takes a deep breath, tries to quell the flare of frustration rising within him. "Okay. Back to the start. Why were you so late tonight?"

"What do you mean? I was there."

"We waited nearly an hour."

"No, that—that's not—"

"We tore the woods apart looking for you."

"I may have been a few minutes late—"

"Nearly an hour, Cas!"

"N-no, I…I was there. It was Crowley we were searching for."

"We were searching for _you_. And when we found you?" Dean shakes his head. "It's like you didn't know us. Like we were the enemy. What the hell was that all about?"

Castiel begins slowly backing away as they speak, and this time Dean matches him pace by pace, backing him steadily closer to the flames, their eyes locked.

"You misunderstood," Castiel answers.

"You nearly decked me when I offered you a hand."

"I don't remember that."

"You don't remember that." Not a question. A statement of flat disbelief.

"I remember…finding you and Sam. And–and agreeing to a plan."

"Agreeing to a plan?"

"Yes."

"You mean the crazy-ass order you issued just before you bailed on us?"

"Bailed…? No—"

"Bailed yes."

"I left you and Sam only briefly. For reconnaissance."

"You told us to go home."

"What? No, I—why would I—?"

"You said we were in the way."

"No—Dean, I—"

"You don't remember saying that."

"I–I was trying to help. It was me who found Samandriel."

"Yeah. Except we'd wasted so much time looking for you we were too late for him."

"But that's not—"

"How did you find him again?"

"I told you, I heard him."

"You told us you'd tuned out of angel airwaves. How did his signal get through?"

"I–I don't know."

"How'd you know about the tunnels?"

"I'm not sure."

"What happened to the knife?"

"The what?"

"The _knife, _Cas, the knife that killed your brother!"

"It wasn't there, I don't—"

"Do you know who killed him?"

"No, I—"

"Because it had to happen fast."

"Dean—"

"And you were _right there_."

"I told you—"

"_You don't know!_" explodes Dean, his face inches from Castiel's as he presses him against the burning wall. Dripping with sweat and utterly exhausted, his whole body shaking with the effort it's been taking to contain his mounting frustration, he steps back. In a grim and defeated voice, he says, "This isn't working so well."

"I'm trying," says Castiel, his own voice a thin and desperate plea. He looks even more wrecked than Dean feels.

Dean wipes his brow again, sweat pouring from his pores in the oven he's built. "Yeah. Me too." He turns away abruptly, heading back to the center of the burning circle. "But I'm done. I'm calling this off before I spontaneously combust. Sammy? You there?"

Castiel turns to gaze thoughtfully at the dancing flames, focusing on them now for the first time. He pivots slowly, his gaze sweeping across the full arc of the circle. "That won't happen," he says distractedly. "You're more likely to die from heatstroke or carbon monoxide poisoning."

"Well, at least you've cleared _that _up tonight. Sammy!"

Sam's not responding. He wonders if he's having some sort of mechanical problem with the extinguisher they use, maybe the canister's trigger has jammed.

As he waits, Dean turns back to Castiel, who seems strangely fixated on the fire. It's the first time the angel has taken his attention off Dean since this started, and it occurs to Dean that it has probably become too difficult, too painful to even look at him anymore. It wasn't meant to be an inquisition, but it turned into one. And it was entirely pointless. "Look, I'm sorry," he says. "I know this was…a little extreme. Crap trip down memory lane for both of us. I just thought if I could focus you, keep you in one place, maybe somehow we could…" A heavy sigh of resignation, of defeat. "But I don't know how to reach you, man. It's like we're living in two different realities."

Softly, dreamily, Castiel says, "We are."

Dean isn't sure he's heard him correctly. He stares at the angel, who seems very calm now, as if mesmerized by the flames, his face serene in their flickering glow. "Sam?" he shouts again to the billowing wall, no longer certain if anyone's listening on the other side. "If you're there, man…hang on, okay?" And then he crosses back to Castiel.

"Say that again?"

Still staring at the fire, in an oddly calm, detached voice, Castiel says, "We're living in two separate realities. Side by side. Yours is the truth, mine is a lie."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Did you know, Dean, that holy fire is the most purifying of all things in creation? That all things perish in its intensity. Even the most carefully designed fiction. I'm watching it burn to ash…"

"Okay…" Dean wants to shout at him, wants to seize him by his shoulders and shake him until the sense of what he's saying tumbles out, but the fervent glow in Castiel's eyes keeps him quiet and waiting.

"And she can't reach through it. Any more than I can. She can't reach me here."

Carefully. "She?"

Castiel begins speaking in a low, trance-like monotone, but his words roll out with increasing speed and intensity, as if he's racing to decipher what he's seeing in the fire before it burns away. "They've been taking me. _She _has. For weeks now. Whenever she wants me, whenever she needs me to do her bidding. She snatches me out of this reality, out of this time and space, without warning, wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, sometimes in the middle of a sentence, in the middle of a thought, and suddenly I'm there—"

"Cas…"

"—with _her _and—and that white, white room, and I can't stop her, I can't reason with her, there's nothing I can do, as if I'm under her control, telling her everything, anything she asks for, and then I'm back—"

"Slow down, man."

"—like I was never away, time moves differently there, and everything that happened, everything she said, it's erased from my mind, as if it never happened, but.. I'm following her every order."

Dean moves closer. "Cas, you need to slow down. Who are we talking about? Who is she?"

Castiel blinks slowly, dazedly, his energy and the last of his calm draining away. "She…her name…" He winces, a hand rising to his left temple. "I—I don't know. I can't—"

"You said she can't get through the fire, any more than you can. Does that make her angel-grade?"

"The most powerful I've ever known."

"Sonofabitch," whispers Dean with soft vehemence. "What do they want this time?"

Castiel blinks again and turns to him, his eyes burning with intense clarity. "You. You and Sam. They want to know what you're doing, what you're planning. They want to know about the tablets, about Kevin, about the Gates. At first all they wanted was information."

"And you gave it to them."

"Yes."

"And now?"

Castiel pauses before answering. "Now they want me to stop you."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm…" He winces again. "…not sure."

Dean is struggling to think, the intensity of the sweltering heat and the haze of smoke collecting within the circle are beginning to make him feel light-headed. He begins pacing. "So you're telling me the suits in Heaven want the Gates of Hell to stay open? Why would they want that?"

"I don't know."

"Why do they need you? Why can't they stop us themselves?"

"I don't know."

"This woman. How do we reach her?"

"You can't. Even I can't."

"You've got to give me something here, Cas!" Dean explodes again, pacing faster. "At least give me a name!"

"Dean, I'm sorry, everything's becoming…" He massages at his temples with both hands. "It's interfering, the thing in my head."

Dean stops in his tracks, his attention snapping back to Castiel. "The _what?_"

"It's…interrupting the flow of clarity. The device they implanted. But if I concentrate—"

Dean stares at him in horror. "They _implanted_ a _device?_"

"Naomi," says Cas suddenly, brightening. "Her name is Naomi."

"In your _head?_"

Castiel turns to him. Apologetically, almost shamefully, he says, "They use it to short-circuit my critical reasoning. To punish my resistance. To control me."

Dean feels sick. He wants to say something, rage and revulsion fighting for his voice, demanding outlet, but he can only manage a feeble and wholly unsatisfying, "Jesus…"

"My defiance displeased her. This was her solution."

_Displeased. _Dean wants to respond with some caustic quip about what she does when she's pissed off, but it's subsumed by sudden, roiling hatred for this woman he knows nothing about, this monster he's just decided he will personally hunt down and destroy. Quietly, through clenched teeth, he asks, "When did she do this to you?"

"Tonight. At the church. When I refused to…"

The angel's eyes go hazy for an instant…then sharpen, then flood with tears. Color drains from his face. He stumbles backward, losing focus on Dean, staring with a kind of sick horror into some point in the mid-distance.

"Cas?"

Castiel falls to his knees.

Dean drops beside him, reaching out to him, fearing he's about to collapse as he did outside the church. "What? What is it? Talk to me."

Castiel is lost in that middle distance. On a shattered voice he says simply, "I killed him."

Dean stares at him, not comprehending, thinking that he may have misheard, that the smoldering heat is messing with his hearing now. "You what?"

Distraught, staring off into that void of space, Castiel says, "I killed Samandriel. She put an angel blade in my hands and I murdered him with it." He begins shaking uncontrollably. "An innocent. One of my own." And with dreadful, dawning horror, "_Another_ one of my own…"

Dean isn't sure how to respond. Everything has gone very quiet. Even the steady, lapping sound of the fire seems muffled and indistinct, as if deadened by the moment's brutality. He can feel Cas swaying beneath this hand, he can see the distance in his gaze stretching as if he's slipping into shock and his mind is shutting down, and he suddenly understands that the fate of his friend depends on whatever he says next.

Dean clamps a hand on Castiel's shoulder, shifting slightly into his hollow stare. "Cas, look at me," he orders. "Look at me and hear what I'm saying."

He waits until he can see Cas struggling to focus on him.

"However this went down, it wasn't your fault. Do you understand?" Castiel shuts his eyes as if trying to shut out the memory, or maybe the horror of reality, and Dean says sharply, "_Keep looking at me_." He digs his fingers into the angel's shoulder, certain he's bruising him, desperate to hold his attention. "They're controlling your every move, you just said so. This wasn't you."

"I killed him, Dean," says Castiel from that faraway place.

"_They_ killed him."

"I fought them. I fought her…"

"I know you did."

"It wasn't enough…"

Dean flashes on a different conversation, not that long ago, in a motel room several states away, when Cas confessed to him that the price of his crimes against Heaven, the myriad lives he took, may be the taking of his own life. Desperation edges his voice. "You didn't do this. Tell me you know that."

Castiel isn't hearing him. "Wasn't enough…" he says again. "And they knew it wouldn't be. They knew…" His eyes widen now with new realization. "That's why they chose me, Dean… I understand."

"You understand what?"

He looks directly at Dean now. His broken voice carries an eerily calm resignation. "They needed a murderer. A killer."

Dean can only stare at him, trying to absorb his words.

"Don't you see? I was perfect. A ready-made monster."

Dean seizes him by his coat lapels and wrenches him upward, dragging him to his feet. Compliant as a ragdoll, or too exhausted to try, Castiel doesn't resist. He allows Dean to shake him fiercely as he shouts, "Cas, you shut the fuck up, do you hear me? Because I need your help! I need you to focus! We need to focus on how to stop them!"

"It's _me_ you need to stop."

"And we will! We'll figure it out. You and me and Sam. But you've got to hold on, Cas, you can't fall apart on me now. We'll figure this out."

Castiel reaches out and clutches the collar of Dean's shirt. "You have to help me."

"We will."

"You have to stop me."

"We will."

Pulling Dean closer, his fist twisting into the collar, he says in a whisper, "You have to kill me."

Dean stares back, stunned.

"When the fire is out, my window of clarity will be gone…and they'll take me again. They'll use me. They'll turn me against you."

Dean's throat has gone dry, tightening around his words. "We won't let that happen—"

Tears pool in Castiel's eyes, the whisper broken and pleading as he says, "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. You'll fight them."

"And it _won't be enough_."

"Cas—"

The angel pulls him very close now, his voice low and fierce and resolute. "Before that happens, you have to take the angel blade, and you have to destroy me."

Dean can't speak.

"If you don't help me, Dean, they'll turn me into the monster I was. They've already started." His voice breaks, tears spilling freely. "If our friendship means anything to you, if you've ever cared about me, promise me you'll do this. Please, Dean. _Help me_."

The circle of fire billows and sways indifferently around them, a sparkle of embers rising into the midnight sky. Dean lays both hands on Castiel's shoulders, his vision rippling with his own tears, and he nods once. "I'll help you, Cas. I promise." He swallows back the emotion threatening to undermine his force of will. "But not like that. We'll find another way. We'll figure this out. You have to trust me."

The angel gently releases his friend's collar, lets his arm fall to his side. He says nothing at first, merely gazing at Dean with a strangely poignant mix of affection and despair, flames dancing with the tears in his eyes. He smiles sadly.

"You're still trying to save me," he says.

"You're still trying to stop me."

Castiel glances very briefly then at the fire that encircles them, the smallest flicker of intention that tells Dean everything. "And I will," he says. And before Dean can respond to what he knows is about to happen, Castiel shoves him to one side, and with a surge of renewed strength he's diving for the fire.

It happens so fast. Dean cries "_No!_" as he clutches at the trench coat and catches a sleeve, causing the angel to stumble as it pitches Dean forward within inches of the burning wall. He's shouting with everything in him "Sammy, _now, now, now!_" as he lunges for Cas in a tackle that sends both of them crashing to the asphalt, so close to the flames their heat singes Dean's jacket, and he latches onto him in his fiercest hold, but the angel is too strong, too determined, wrenching free of Dean's grip and kicking him backward as he claws toward the circle's edge. Staggering to his feet, he glances down at Dean briefly, almost apologetically, and as he steps into the fiery wall it collapses in an explosion of high-pressure chemicals blasted from the extinguisher Sam holds on the other side, dousing the ring.

The moment of frenetic chaos is followed by silence and a surreal stillness. Sam stands holding the extinguisher on the other side of the smoldering line on the asphalt, thick gray smoke pluming overhead. Dean has climbed to his feet, struggling to catch his breath. And both of them stare wide-eyed at Castiel, who stands between them as motionless as stone, head down, clothes drenched in the metallic-smelling retardant fluid from the extinguisher. His left arm hangs in a twisted and mangled mess, the flesh incinerated by the fire's touch, tendrils of smoke drifting from the melted jacket sleeve and what's left of the blackened, papery skin and scorched bones beneath.

Dean tries to remember later how long they all stood there like that, as if trapped in a single frame of a horror movie. It could have been half a minute or half an hour, Dean's never sure, but it seems to last interminably. It ends, however, in the space of a breath. Castiel's head lifts, his eyes closed as he inhales a deep lungful of the smoky night air, and as he releases it, a soft white light shimmers down the full length of this body. As it glistens around his feet and melts into the ground, he opens his eyes. His arm his healed. His hair and clothes are dry, his trench coat restored, clean and looking like it has recently been pressed. Sam and Dean simply look on in speechless astonishment.

...

"So," says Castiel. "What is it you want?"

Several seconds tick by. Dean's response is barely audible. "What?"

"You wanted to talk to me about something."

Dean fails to answer. He simply stares at him with an odd, hollow, almost frightened expression, and in that instant it strikes Castiel how different he looks from just a moment ago. His clothes are disheveled, he's covered in sweat and grit from the asphalt, he's breathing in quick, labored rasps, and…wasn't he standing where Castiel is now?

"You said we're having a talk," he tries, finding it difficult to focus. His head feels thick, there's an unpleasant, acrid odor hanging in the air that makes it hard to concentrate, and Dean still isn't answering him.

"He meant the three of us," says a voice from over his shoulder, startling him, as Sam appears from nowhere.

"Sam. Didn't you…leave?"

Sam joins them, looking far more calm and composed than his brother. "We came out here to talk things through," he continues, apparently not hearing the question. "Dean thought we might need you to referee while we try to hammer a few of them out. You know. Like a marriage counselor." He casts a satisfied little glance at Dean's wince. "But I don't think we need that. I think we can work this out between the two of us, the way we always have. What do you say, Dean?"

Dean is struggling with words again, looking at once annoyed and grateful for his brother's droll, casual confidence. But Castiel senses something more beneath Sam's demeanor, a kind of guarded urgency that makes no sense to him.

"Yeah," Dean finally manages. "Nothin' mends a fence like a punch-up and a few beers." A corner of his lip tips up in an attempt to smile. "Not necessarily in that order."

Sam smiles back at him. And for a moment everything seems okay, and Castiel wonders if the strange fog in his head is simply distorting his perception. But the moment stretches into an uneasy, creeping silence that no one seems to know how to fill, and even without looking up, he can feel Dean watching him. They're both watching him.

"Then…" says Castiel, "I'm not needed here."

Dean swallows with an audible click. Softly he says, "Go back inside, Cas."

Castiel looks up at him. "Are…are you sure? I don't mind staying. Being a…" What was it Sam said? His thoughts spiral away into that fog, he feels himself sway and Dean reaches out to steady him. "…reverie."

"You can be a reverie some other time," says Dean. "We've got this covered."

"Oh. Okay…" But it's not okay. The sense of disorientation, of everything being subtly _off_, is palpable, a sickly pressure in his chest. His attention locks onto Dean, who looks as unwell as the angel feels. "If you're alright."

"What?"

"You seem…" searching for a word that won't somehow offend him, "unsettled."

He catches the look that Sam and Dean exchange.

"And you smell like smoke," he adds. "You both do."

Dean hesitates, looking uncomfortable, then waves an arm vaguely toward the tree-lined lot behind him. "There was this guy…"

"A farmer," Sam helps.

"…burning his…" He's struggling again.

"Crops," says Sam.

"Yeah," says Dean.

Castiel says nothing. His bewilderment over the blatant lie is offset by his concern for Dean.

"Look, it's…it's been a long night. But I'm fine," Dean quietly assures him, trying to smile again. "How are _you_ feeling, Cas?"

"I'm fine," says Castiel, confused by the question.

Dean unexpectedly laughs, an abrasive, mirthless sound. He turns to his brother, his voice a little too loud. "How 'bout you, Sam? You fine too?"

Sam's look is equal parts worry and warning. "Well, actually—"

"We're all just fine then! How freakin' awesome is that!"

It's an odd little moment, a snapping of Dean's tautly held composure, but the angel has no idea what it means, what any of this means right now, and what he wants more than anything is to simply explain that he's confused, he feels out of sync, and he might need his friends' help, but something deep within prevents him from doing that, an inner voice that warns him against drawing them in, a sudden and unsettling _knowing_ that his very presence puts them in grave danger and that what he needs to do right now more than anything is teleport away from them as far as he possibly can, and in that instant of intention a short, sharp current of white heat sears through his temples.

A hand falls on his shoulder, heavy and distracting. He blinks a few times and finds Dean directly in front of him, his intense, riveted gaze belying the calm set of his face. "Cas," he says gently, ducking his head slightly to catch the angel's eyes. "Hey. I want you to do something for me. I want you to go back inside, grab one of those beds, and crash for a while. Will you do that?"

The pain recedes as he focuses on his friend, who seems so solid, so real, even as the world dips and sways behind him. A strange word in this context, _crash_, and what was he thinking before that, wasn't it important…?

Dean is waiting for a response. Sam stands at his side.

"Crash?" he hears himself ask as if from far away.

"Rest."

"I don't need rest."

"I think you do." The look Dean pins him with tells him the decision has been made.

Castiel frowns. "Wouldn't it…wouldn't it be a more productive use of my time to study the symbols Sam found? Sam, if I can use your laptop—"

"You can't."

Both Castiel and Dean start at the sharpness in Sam's tone.

In a softer voice, he continues, "He's right, man, you look beat. And we've got a long day tomorrow, we're going to need you, so… I'm with Dean. Get some rest."

Dean glances at his brother with a flicker of surprise, and a look of unmistakable gratitude for the show of support.

Which Castiel finds frustrating because their renewed solidarity seems to be angled against _him_. Feeling absurdly ganged up on, he stammers, "But I don't need…I don't require—"

Dean's grip on his shoulder tightens. "Stop arguing."

"Leave that to us," says Sam.

"Yeah," Dean smirks. "The professionals."

He opens his mouth to protest further, but the brothers' attention is fixed on him again, their concern no longer veiled, their determination unflinching, and despite the transcendent powers of Heaven itself at his disposal, the angel feels outflanked. And irritated. He shrugs Dean's hand from his shoulder and steps back from them. "Fine then. I'll just…" He glances across the dark parking lot, toward the squat, gray-brick building in the distance, a dull neon light strobing "V CANCY" over its safety-glass-doored entrance. Non-descript but familiar and safe, welcoming in its own way. Almost summoning him…

He does feel desperately tired—which makes no sense to him, since nothing particularly taxing has happened today—and he doesn't suppose a brief period of rest would do him any harm. Except…that's not really what's calling him back, is it?

"Hey."

Dean's voice snaps him back from the hazy digression. He looks back at them, feeling strangely vulnerable and alone and not at all comfortable with these sensations.

"You need anything, anything at all, you come find us." Dean's got that look again of trying very hard to appear casual while issuing a clear order. "Okay?"

"We'll be right here," says Sam, a reflection of his brother. The pair of them, thinks Castiel dully, joining forces to comfort an angel of God.

But as he takes in their reassurance, he realizes with sudden alarm just how deeply, even desperately he _wants_ to take comfort in them, yearns to find peace in their words, in their _presence _here with him tonight, as if blind faith in these two will somehow resolve whatever is so glaringly wrong with this night that his mind is too muddled—too damaged?—to identify. It makes him angry with himself. "Why would I need anything?" he snaps. "It's the two of you with all the issues."

He pivots back and heads for the parking lot. And then stops. Reminded suddenly of why the brothers are remaining behind, of the gaping rift in their relationship.

He can feel they're still watching him, with bewildering compassion, and human emotions rise and clash within him now, guilt and worry, shame and affection, and deeper than all of these, the enduring desire to help them. Maybe everything doesn't have to be wrong here tonight. He turns back to his friends, steadying his voice, dropping it to a lower register. "Perhaps if you can find some common ground…something you both care about…maybe then you can…"

But the thread of thought is slipping away even as he reaches for it, lost to his exhaustion and frayed mindset. He sighs and lowers his head, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them he finds he's looking at his left hand. Splaying his fingers, studying them. Even his hand seems…_wrong_.

They're watching him intensely again, he can feel it. He is aware that Dean is about to speak, maybe even step toward him.

"I'm going to crash now," Castiel announces slowly and carefully, wanting to get the phrase right. He doesn't wait for their response. He turns toward the motel and leaves them.

...

Sam and Dean stare at the space the angel vanished from.

"He has no idea what just happened," Sam says quietly.

"Yeah, well," murmurs Dean. "He's not alone." The words Castiel left them with are echoing dismally in his mind. Spoken in such precise and careful diction, on any other day it would have made both of them smile. But tonight it sounded a little too much like the angel was announcing his fate, like some grim premonition, and it sends chills through Dean.

"How're you doing?" asks Sam, still standing at his side.

"I'm fine. I just said so."

Sam grunts softly. "Yeah, I heard what you said. I'm still asking."

Dean considers a snarky comeback, and feels it wither in his throat. He decides to at least aim for the truth. "You heard Cas. I'm...unsettled."

He stares at the motel, aware that he's still wearing that mask of easy-going calm, that his face is actually starting to hurt from the effort of maintaining it. He drags a hand over his face and deliberately turns his back on the motel, facing the empty expanse of rural darkness that stretches into the night and still smells faintly of smoke and chemicals. He drops the mask. Sam does likewise. For a moment they stand side by side saying nothing, just staring into the dark.

"So, how much were you able to hear?" Dean finally asks, with discernible reluctance.

"Pretty much everything," says Sam. And then with a small frown, "Up until just before you started fighting. When the conversation suddenly got quiet. What was he saying?"

Dean averts his brother's gaze. "Nothing important, just…"

"What?"

His shirt damp from perspiration and cooling fast in the night air, Dean shrugs against the chill he can already feel sinking into his bones. "He asked for our help."

Sam considers this for a moment, his frown deepening. "And then he took a dive into the holy fire?" He cocks an eyebrow at Dean and smiles dubiously. "What, did you tell him no?"

"He was messed up, Sammy, he wasn't thinking straight."

"Okay…" Sam is unconvinced. "Still, it seems—"

Dean turns to face him. "We've got to help him, Sam."

"And how do you propose we do that? We don't even know what we're fighting."

"We know it's the friggin' winged empire striking back," says Dean, his voice rising unintentionally. "Not like we haven't fought these bastards before."

"Yeah, but this time they're not showing themselves. They're hiding behind Cas. They're hiding…_inside _him. How the hell do we fight that?"

Dean takes a measured step back from him. "So what are you saying? We close ranks and kill him?"

Sam glares at him, too stunned at first to answer. "Did I say that?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Oh," Sam snorts, "so we're talking about your fanged friend Benny now."

"It was your answer with him," says Dean, temper flaring.

"And it was your answer with Amy! In fact—" Sam is shouting now, his own temper rising to meet Dean's, "not all that long ago, it was your answer with _Cas!_"

"This is not the same thing, Sam!" Dean shouts back, rage throbbing in the veins in his neck.

"Then stop _making _it the same thing, Dean! Can we just focus on the here and now please?"

"Fine! Here and now." Dean draws in close to his brother, their faces inches apart, and lowers his voice. "He killed someone, Sammy. You heard that part, right?"

Sam holds his ground. "I heard."

"_And?_"

"And…" Sam throws both arms out to his sides in an exaggerated shrug, as if the answer is plainly obvious. "It wasn't his fault."

Dean says nothing. He draws his own arms around himself and turns away.

And in that gesture, Sam reads the doubt. "Wait…" he says slowly, anger beginning to give way to bewilderment and disbelief. "Do you honestly think I would hunt Cas down—_Cas_—for being manipulated by something he has no control over, that he doesn't even remember? You think I would do that to him?" Dean won't meet his gaze. "You think I would do that to _you?_"

Silence lingers for a long moment. Sam finally turns away from his brother and stares off into the diamond-chipped sky, the horizon lost beneath the swath of stars. With a small shiver, he pulls his jacket tighter. Softly he asks, "Is that who you think I am now, Dean?"

Dean is trying to maintain a detached implacability, but he's failing miserably. He finally releases a ragged sigh. The anger is gone from his voice when he speaks, in its place a subdued, wounded regret. "What I think is that… neither one of us is who we used to be. Before we got thrown in separate directions." He pauses. "It's not like I can second-guess you anymore."

Neither of them is looking at each other. They both stare into the inky sky.

"Or trust me," says Sam quietly.

...

Inside the motel room, Castiel stands at a grimy window watching Sam and Dean argue in the distance. He can hear their voices, can easily detect the agitated tone, and the way it rises and falls, but he can't make out the words. He doesn't choose to. It's not his business. If they want his help, they'll let him know, and he trusts that. He trusts them. He wants nothing more than to help them, but he thinks he may not be in the best state of mind to do that right now. And he suspects they know that too.

He looks at the bed nearest the door and considers their request—more of an order—that he rest. He doesn't require rest; he is, after all, an angel. Dean in particular never seemed to fully accept that he's not limited by the needs for rest, certainly not for sleep, that humans are. But still…there's something inviting about the pile of pillows, the crumpled bedspread, the quilt draped lazily over the top. He allows himself to sit down on it, and to close his eyes, just for a moment. He is, he must concede, so very tired… From outside the voices of his friends drift in…quieter now, perhaps reaching some sort of agreement? He hopes so. He takes a deep breath, the way humans do, and feels the inexorable sway of exhaustion pulling him into its arms.

_The symbols._

The words are in his head from nowhere, unsolicited, unwanted visitors. His eyes snap open and he finds himself staring across the room at Sam's laptop. The computer Sam refused him access to. Before he realizes he's even moving, he's standing above a blinking blue screen, and with a series of swift keystrokes, images are racing across it, too quick for the human eye, perfect for his. The images flash across his retinas, imprinting themselves on his memory.

A shout from Sam echoing from the other side of the parking lot draws his attention back to the window. He can't discern the words, but he can feel the sharp edge of their disappointment, their bitterness.

Sam asked him not to do this. He told Sam he wouldn't… he told them both. But isn't this why he's here, why he had to come back? Isn't this more important than Sam's request…more important than their trust in him?

_No._

He snaps the lid down. Draws a hand to his head, as if to catch the stitch of pain suddenly shooting through the left side of his skull. _He won't re-open it, he won't. _His fingers tremble as they dig into his forehead. The pain is ratcheting up.

He stumbles backward toward the bathroom. Leans over the sink, douses his face in icy water, in hopes of numbing the pain. He's not human, it shouldn't feel this hard to breathe… He closes his eyes, draws in a slow, deep breath, feeling oxygen fill his lungs and steady his thoughts, and as he releases it, he re-opens his eyes, meeting his pallid reflection in the mirror.

Behind him is his brother Samandriel, covered in blood, his eyes wide and terrified and confused, an angel blade jutting from his ruined chest.

Castiel spins around.

The bathroom is empty, but a voice drifts faintly through his mind in the flashback's wake: _I trusted you, Castiel._

The angel's knees begin to buckle. He grabs for the sink behind him, struggling to brace himself against it, feeling his skin slide against the wet porcelain. The room spins. Excruciating pain, and shattering white noise, crash simultaneously through his head, and the moldy eggshell tiles of the linoleum floor somehow lift to catch him.

...

"I trust you with my life, Sam."

Sam waits for the other shoe to drop. He can see his brother weighing it up.

Dean has withdrawn from the formidable ring scarring the asphalt, remnant chemical fumes still hanging over it like a halo, and settled beneath a sprawling oak tree, his back to its enormous, knotted trunk, much like the one they'd cornered Castiel into earlier that evening. Those few hours ago that feel like weeks.

Sam gives up on waiting. "But not with Cas's."

Dean doesn't look up.

"You know, you're not exactly a shining example of loyalty yourself, Dean."

Dean sighs impatiently. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? Fine. I am. I'm sorry about the text message. I'm sorry I lied to you." And then firing a fierce look at Sam, a clear warning shot. "I'm not sorry about protecting a friend."

Sam turns this over in his thoughts for a while. There is so much he wants to tell his brother, so much he needs to say… He casts a glance at the drab and dreary Lazy 8, its bank of windows staring back lifelessly, aware that one of them may be looking back. Now isn't the time. There are too many other things to talk about, and they've already been out here too long.

He clears his throat. "Okay."

Dean looks up at him dubiously. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"No, not really, but we've got to move past this somehow. If we're going to help Cas. I mean, that's what we're doing out here, right? You didn't buy the line I fed him about the two of us hammering things out, did you?"

Dean sniffs, looking offended, and glances down. "You think I'm stupid?"

"I think you're scared, Dean. You're scared you're losing me, scared you're losing Cas, and it's turning you into a paranoid asshole."

Anger twitches the corner of Dean's lip. "Careful, Sammy, you're gonna make me cry."

"I haven't left yet, Dean."

"You're on your way."

"I'm standing right here."

"With one foot out the door."

"I never said—"

"Where were you, Sam?" The sudden shift in Dean's tone is disarming. It's not the same voice he used earlier that evening when directing the same question at Castiel. It's not accusatory, not even angry. It's simply, and openly, hurt.

"What are you talking about?"

"First time I called you in there." Dean raises his chin toward the asphalt ring twenty feet away. "I called you, like, three times waiting for you to douse that bitch, and nothing happened. I mean, as it turned out, your timing was pretty good, but—what, did you decide it was a good time to grab a beer? Check email? Text your girlfriend?"

"Are you serious?"

"I'm just curious."

Keeping his pitch cool and even, Sam says, "My timing was perfect."

Dean grunts. "Because you got lucky."

"Because I was watching."

"From the other side of a wall of flame taller than me," sneers Dean.

"From the branch over your head, you moron."

Dean slowly gazes up at the tangle of thick, solid branches silhouetted against the moonlit sky just over his head.

"Easy climb, gave me a clear vantage point. I watched the whole thing." He has Dean's full attention now. "And I could see things that maybe you couldn't, like the way his expression changed when he was watching the fire. So yeah, I heard you, but what I _decided _was that dousing our last chance of finding out what the hell's going on was a bad idea at the time."

Dean seems about to say something, then changes his mind and looks down. After a while he mumbles, more to himself than to Sam, "Good call."

"You didn't really think I was going to leave you alone in there, did you?"

Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

Sam hadn't actually given up hope until that moment. Throughout all the weeks of simmering resentment, and even in the blow-up at the church when he lashed out at Dean with his promise to walk away after tonight, even then he didn't really believe what he was saying, and he hadn't truly given up. He certainly hadn't made any real decision. But right now, in the ashen light cast in his brother's eyes, he sees such a loss of faith in who they are, both as hunters and as brothers, that the tarnished hope still remaining begins to crumble. It seems the decision has been made for him. And it's his fault, he knows. And everything Sam was determined to eventually share with his brother—what really happened after he lost Dean—once the anger and resentment had cooled, once this insanity with Cas had settled, once the time was right, all of it is slipping away.

Until Dean says, "He wanted me to kill him."

Sam's attention snaps back to his brother. "What?"

Dean is looking up at him, his gaze locked onto Sam's. "What Cas said to me at the end. Remember you asked?" Sam is caught so off-guard by the disclosure, his nod is nearly imperceptible. "He thinks he's a threat to us. He thinks he could turn. And he wanted my promise that I'd put him down."

"And when you wouldn't…"

"He decided to do it himself." Dean pauses, still watching him, gauging his response. Quietly he adds, "I thought you should know."

...

They talk for nearly an hour.

It's hesitant and guarded at first, full of stops and starts, but as they brainstorm ideas, banter opinions, accepting some, rejecting others, the flow of strategizing becomes effortless and smooth, a shift into a well-worn groove.

They talk about this new breed of angels and their sadistic ringleader—referred to so often by Dean as "this Naomi bitch" that Sam comes to think of it as her full name—exchanging theories of who they might be, what they might want, and how they might fight them. They talk about Kevin and the tablets, about the symbols they discovered, they talk about Crowley's part in all this, and why Samandriel had to die.

They talk about Castiel. What it will take to help him, to pull him back from this precipice's edge, and how they'll keep him oblivious both to their efforts and to the unwitting role he plays. Dean shifts uneasily as they discuss the angel's determination to protect them, all too aware of the deadly measures he'll take to ensure their safety. His fingers absently skim the blisters that flared along his forearm from the heat of the holy fire as he fought to restrain Castiel, just before the angel so effortlessly broke free.

"We'll stop him, Dean." Sam is watching him, reading his fears. "Whatever it takes."

They talk about keeping him close, and how they'll do that. They decide to issue a very specific mandate—cloaked in casual suggestion and friendly advice, based on how they're working as a team now—that the angel's not to disappear, no more zapping away, no more missions on his own. It might work, it might not, ultimately depending on how much he trusts them, but it's the best way to keep him safe, even if they have no control over where he might be dragged off to in those nano-seconds that "this Naomi bitch" has him.

They talk about how they can use Castiel—their direct link to "Winged Monkey Central," as Dean calls it—to feed the angels false information, as a means both of throwing them off-track and garnering intell. Neither of which is likely to work for long, but it might at least buy them time, which they agree their ill-fated friend is running dangerously short on.

What they don't talk about are the twists and turns their relationship has taken over the past six hours, or for that matter, the past six months. They don't talk about Amelia, or Benny, or whether their bond is too broken for an alliance beyond this situation with Castiel. In a strange way it doesn't seem relevant. It feels to them both as if this moment—right here and right now—is the only one that matters. They are at each other's side _right now_, and everything else—the anger, the bitterness, the wealth of unspoken truths—pales in significance against that. It won't disappear, but it can wait.

They've wandered back to the parking lot, where the Impala sits by itself at the far end like a lone sheet-metal sentinel, and they lean against its onyx hood now, speaking in low, hushed voices. Sam says his reservation at the motel down the street has by now expired, so there's no point going back. He adds, casually, that there's no point in paying for two rooms either, especially if they're going to be here for a while. He'll take the shabby, sagging couch in Dean's room, and as exhausted as he feels, he's actually looking forward to it. Dean listens without argument.

The conversation stalls. They both know they need to return to the room, to check on Castiel and continue the elaborate pretense that began as the last embers of the ringed fire drifted skyward around the three of them tonight. Neither of them is enthused.

"You know," says Sam, aware of his brother's reluctance to embark on another lie, "if we want to talk to him again—I mean _really talk_—there's always the holy fire option."

Dean smirks. "Our very own Cone of Silence." He pushes off from the Impala's hood and turns toward the motel. "Not exactly the Cone of Convenience. Large circles of fire aren't easy to set up in a motel room. Management tends to frown on that sort of thing."

"We'll figure something out."

"Yeah," says Dean, sounding unconvinced and far too weary to argue. He crosses in front of Sam and begins slowly heading toward the room.

"Hey, Dean."

Dean stops without turning.

Behind him Sam says, "I heard what you promised him. That we'd find a way through this." He pauses and Dean waits. "Well, I'm promising _you_ now."

For a moment the night is utterly still, utterly soundless. It's as if everything around them has stopped and waits for Sam's next words. "We'll find a way. We're not going to lose him."

Dean doesn't move, doesn't speak.

With a quiet intensity, Sam says, "No one's losing anyone."

Dean turns back to him now, meets his gaze across the Impala's hood, seeing the resolution in his little brother's eyes. He manages a tired smile. "Damn straight."

...

Castiel wakes up on the floor of the Lazy 8 bathroom, his right cheek pressed against the greasy cold of a tile.

His head feels thick, sluggish, making focus a difficult task, but the pain is muted now, the white noise a dull background hiss. He can't quite remember how he ended up here. The last he recalls clearly, he was standing over Sam's laptop. And he's aware of a pull to return there…

He struggles to his feet and studies his reflection in the mirror. Everything is in the right place. His clothes look tidy, his hair is combed back neatly, and his skin, though cast grey in the dim overhead light, is unblemished. His eyes stare back weary and glazed, but they are his. Everything on the outside looks correct. And feels wrong. Because within the perfect packaging, he feels fragmented, dissonant, at odds with some part of himself, some imposter, that he can't recognize or even clearly see. For a moment as he stares at the flawless facsimile of his vessel, he doesn't know who he is.

The laptop. He needs to get back to the laptop.

He crosses back into the main room, stopping at the table where Sam's computer sits. He glances outside and sees the brothers in the parking lot now, standing near the Impala. He remembers very little about the events of the past evening, but the reason they're out there stands clear in his mind. They are trying to heal the breach that has divided them. They are looking for common ground…

Did he suggest that to them? That part is hazy, as is much of the detail of all that transpired tonight. Something important happened at the church, something involving a fellow angel—

_is Samandriel dead?_

—but he's not sure what, and he's still mystified as to why he ended up on the floor of the bathroom. Everything is tortuously unclear. And he should feel frightened, he should feel desperate for answers to what's happening to him, he should in fact be out actively seeking them rather than standing here in the dark, secluded space of this cramped room, but as he peers out at the Winchesters what he feels beyond anything is calm. It's the calm of knowing that if he can't rely on himself, he can rely on them. It's the only thing he's certain of right now: his trust in Sam and Dean. There is nothing and no one in this universe he trusts more.

And it pleases him immeasurably to see them together out there now, speaking, working through their differences.

He can hear their hushed conversation outside—not the actual words, but the tone that carries them, calm and steady and fluid. And the sound, a rhythmic ebb and flow of soft resonance, somehow more like a tone of music in the angel's ears than of voice, fills him unexpectedly with a sense of peace. In that instant the information on the computer is forgotten; in fact, all that he captured earlier from its screen is let go, simply released from the holding pattern in his mind.

He drifts over to the bed by the window, its comfort still waiting, still inviting, and lies back in its soft embrace. He's surprised at just how comfortable it is, how welcoming. The lulling, music-like tone from outside, the quiet conversation of his companions, his only family, fills his mind as he closes his eyes, and in the peacefulness he's found—a transient thing at best, he knows—Castiel does the one thing he never expected to. He falls into a dreamless, contented sleep.

x

* * *

x


End file.
